Authorized.
Like this is paperwork.
Like this is routine.
“I need to see him.”
“Are you family?”
The question lands like a physical blow.
“No,” I whisper.
Not legally.
Not on paper.
Not anything that counts.
“I’m sorry,” she says, voice sympathetic but firm. “Only immediate family is permitted at this time.”
Something inside me caves in.
“I love him,” I say, and my voice cracks in half.
She hesitates.
But policy is policy.
“I can let you wait.”
Wait.
So I do. I wait.
The chairs are hard plastic.
The lighting hums overhead.
The news plays silently on a mounted TV across the lobby.
There are already reporters gathering outside the glass doors.
Cameras.
Microphones.
Chaos.
I don’t care.
Nathan sits beside me for the first hour.
Maybe two.
His knee bounces.
He keeps checking his phone.